you are slow like daggers or
cancer.
this is what it feels like to travel
on a discourse:
something about you metastasizes
in my mind whenever the silences
are no longer beautiful;
and just like that, I thumb a prayer
to the fallen obsidian,
this harbinger of marvelous calm.
sometimes all the rooms are white
and I am immersed deep into pallor –
when both our eyes do not meet,
I wring out a cockeyed miracle:
dragging the blood of the trees with me,
these bushy polyps,
these benign volcanoes skin,
ashen and dull like a heart – these agonized
appurtenances, I gleam like light
cut from the mirror and fade out
as my visibilities hide.
something in me smiles when you
are flattened out – cross-legged, interconnected
unloose a star fettered somewhere deep where
hands cannot reach for the inside of a tomb.
this suchness that when I feel your sensations
press their threats against my skin,
you are a salutary squelch
in this pure-iron condition, or a heavy-earth machinery
moving inside my marrow, that deep
into death like a morning waist-high
with tears, walled in by requiems.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
you are slow like daggers or
cancer.
this is what it feels like to travel
on a discourse:
something about you metastasizes
in my mind whenever the silences
are no longer beautiful;
and just like that, I thumb a prayer
to the fallen obsidian,
this harbinger of marvelous calm.
sometimes all the rooms are white
and I am immersed deep into pallor –
when both our eyes do not meet,
I wring out a cockeyed miracle:
dragging the blood of the trees with me,
these bushy polyps,
these benign volcanoes skin,
ashen and dull like a heart – these agonized
appurtenances, I gleam like light
cut from the mirror and fade out
as my visibilities hide.
something in me smiles when you
are flattened out – cross-legged, interconnected
unloose a star fettered somewhere deep where
hands cannot reach for the inside of a tomb.
this suchness that when I feel your sensations
press their threats against my skin,
you are a salutary squelch
in this pure-iron condition, or a heavy-earth machinery
moving inside my marrow, that deep
into death like a morning waist-high
with tears, walled in by requiems.
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